


Vignette One: Rope

by kneelinganon (the_netherlady)



Series: Mending [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt, Jötunn Loki, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Has Issues, Self-Destruction, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_netherlady/pseuds/kneelinganon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Banner said he pushed too hard.</p><p>Loki did not push enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vignette One: Rope

It never took the void away.

  
  
Pure exertion, burning, pain, both exquisite and terrible, every sloping, ribbed sheet of muscle trembling, failing-- _harder, faster, stronger, cannot stop, cannot wait_ \--  
  
"--Guh--!"  
  
His back hit the blue, firm mat under him--the rope swinging-- _mockingly_ \--above his head. The blisters were leaking. Sweat beaded every pore.  
  
It was  _insulting_  how tired this awful mortal body became. Banner had insisted he do  _something_  about his nearly 'human' form. Those weeks in hospital had weakened him, as well as the battle that landed him in such an undignified position. He was to train. To busy himself, to work at his thin frame until it could handle the duress of their  _precious missions._  
  
He huffed, a wet strand of black hair twitching on his forehead.

  
  
It was humiliating.

  
  
While Steve, the ever present voice of commune, bade him to train with the others, Loki refused. He would not  _struggle_  in front of them. He was a _God_. And though he now relied on blood, heart, lungs and viscera, by the Norns, he would not subject himself to their prying eyes.  
  
JARVIS was kind enough to tell him when the facility was cleared. He had ignored the note of Stark baring the room from the rest a few hours every evening for that very purpose. Loki did not inquire why. The mortal was tiresome.  
  
And so, there he was. Breathing heavily, his soaking back pressed into a sticky, hard sheet of foam, having failed to climb a mere 40 feet of rope dangling above his body.  
  
Banner said he pushed too hard.  
  
Loki did not push enough.  
  
He rolled onto his knees, his pants lessening, every muscle quivering at the movement. He had spent weeks in that room now. Lifting their steel circles, sprinting around their sponge-like track, bounding about that ridiculous wooden structure full of traps, nets and the like. And still-- _still_ \--he could not manage to pull himself up that  _damnedable rope._  
  
His speed was legend. His accuracy with a blade immaculate. His cunning and resourcefulness were not things  _anyone_  nor any _thing_  could remove from him.  
  
Thor was all brute strength.  
  
He gave a low sound, keening, furious, and hauled himself off the floor. This facility was a farce.  
  
Loki limped the familiar path towards the aptly named 'shower room', peeling off his wet clothes like skin. It mattered not if any of the  _team_  were present. Shyness did not become him.  
  
Every movement stabbed him to his core.  
  
Banner would, no doubt, fuss over the bruises and raw patches of flesh again--if he saw them. The present stiffness in his limbs and back, as well as the pieces of skin peeling off his hands the size of Midigardian coins.  
  
He pressed a hand against the white, shining tiles, twisting the silverish knobs embedded in the walls to an appropriate amount of coldness.  
  
None of that mattered to Loki.  
  
When he woke in the mornings, and rolled his shoulders with a cry--the inability to walk properly, the vinegary sting in his fingers, the constant headaches and muscle spasms--the hot, searing pain served him well.  
  
He tilted his head back, the icy water rushing over his boiling skin letting a sigh from his lips. Every day thereafter, he would reach another foot on that rope. Another inch, another curl of twine closer to the white rafters above. Loki pressed his forehead against those white tiles, dark color blooming at his shoulder blades, creeping across the flesh until it swallowed the white, unmarred tint of his skin.  
  
He would train his pink skin to remain one day soon, and hide the monster lurking in the frozen plane below it so that no amount of effort would bring it forth again.

  
  
He would not tire.  
  
He would not fail.  
  
He would not  _fall_.

  
  
He would mutilate this worthless body into submission.  
  
Gods do not become men.

**Author's Note:**

> The first of the small vignettes for the in-betweens. I'll be posting these sporadically between chapters, maybe, some related to major story points, some not. Thanks for reading~


End file.
